Page 77 of I’m Already Gone

I unlock the door and enter the house, the savory scent of chicken and a blend of spices smacking me in the face. My stomach lets out a small protest. I follow the off-key singing toward the kitchen. I stop just inside the archway, unable to believe what I’m seeing.

Ollie sits on a kitchen chair, mesmerized, watching the whole scene. Maddy is stirring something in a large bowl, swaying as she belts out one of Adele’s power ballads from the radio. It sounds less like singing and more like a cat fighting for its life, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to hold back a laugh. Ethan is standing at the stone countertop, a smile playing on his lips, as he stirs a spoon in a sizzling frying pan. Both are utterly oblivious to me, lost in their father-daughter bubble.

I clear my throat to get their attention. “Smells delicious.”

Maddy’s head snaps up, her eyes widening, and a brilliant smile spreads across her face. “Hey, Mom!” she practically shouts, dropping the spoon with a clatter and striding toward me, wrapping her arms around my waist.

“Mama’s home!” Ollie yells from his chair.

I hug Maddy back. “Hi, sweet pea.”

“Daddy and I are making dinner,” she says excitedly. I can see the sheer joy in her eyes, knowing how much she loves spending time with her father.

“I can see that,” I say with a light chuckle. Then I turn to Ollie, who’s scrambling off his chair, and scoop him up for a hug.

“Hi, baby boy,” I whisper, kissing his soft cheek, reveling in the familiar weight of him in my arms.

I look up to see Ethan turning the radio off, the Adele wail cutting out mid-note, and he wipes his hands a little self-consciously on a kitchen towel draped over his shoulder.

“Hey.” A warm, almost shy smile touching his lips.

I return his smile. “Hi.”

We stare at each other for a long beat, the air charged, as if we are the only two people in the room, the kids momentarily forgotten. It’s a familiar, now uncomfortable intimacy. He breaks it first, looking down at the pan.

“We’re, uh, making chicken stir-fry and…” He glances at the bowl Maddy was stirring.

“Cucumber salad,” Maddy pipes up, having returned to her post. “Your favorite.” She grins proudly.

“Thank you. That’s really thoughtful.”

I look up at Ethan, who is still staring at me, a soft, almost adoring expression on his face. “Thank you,” I repeat, meaning for more than just the meal.

“You’re welcome.” His smile deepens, that genuine, kind smile that used to melt me.

“Maddy, can you please take Ollie upstairs and get him to wash his hands, please? And tell Jake to come down for dinner?” Ethan asks, already reaching for the serving dishes.

I set Ollie down.

“Sure, Dad,” she chirps, taking Ollie’s little hand in hers and exiting the kitchen.

“Would you like something to drink?” Ethan asks, going to the refrigerator. His light gray polo strains slightly across the breadth of his back with the movement.

“Water, please,” I say, watching him.

He opens the door, the internal light illuminating his profile and the curve of his bicep as he pulls out a pitcher of water. “So, did you have a good day?” he asks, shutting the door and carrying the pitcher to me.

I don’t answer right away because my eyes are trapped on a landscape I once owned and now have no right to trespass upon. The polo is tucked into his charcoal slacks, and the top two buttons are undone, revealing a deep, tanned V of bare chest, smooth and inviting. But my gaze drops lower, an involuntary, magnetic pull to the heavy, unmistakable bulge straining against his trousers. Good God. Has it always been that big?

He catches me staring, and I want to argue that his dick looked at me first.

His mouth twitches into a slow, knowing smirk that is both arrogant and devastatingly sexy.

My cheeks flush. “Yes,” I manage, the word slightly breathy. “I hung out with Sam and Ebony for the day.”

He sets the pitcher down, his eyes dark with amusement. “That’s good,” he drawls, pouring the water into my glass. “Did you enjoy the view?”

I swallow a mouthful of suddenly dry air, and a tingling feeling in places that haven't hosted a party in months returns with a vengeance. “Y-Yes,” I stammer, shifting in my seat.